Mel examines the book for a while. "It's a log book detailing what the Vault Keepers were up to ..." she says, and details what it contains.
Kazador stood back and let Mel read over it. He tried to remain stoically neutral, but it was hard. This was evidence that none of the Vault Keepers survived. And with their deaths, so too was lost irreplaceable experience and knowledge. Already emotionally exhausted, he took a deep breath. ”We must press on. And pray that the Heart was not carried by them in their bid for freedom.”
Quiet, Muse agrees with Kazador. "Let's."
"Well, I certainly learned some lesson from that. But I'm not happy with the outcome - she got away, and new thugs are easy to find. Chances are she continues her murderous scheme elsewhere. I'd rather have seen her stopped for good..."
When they meet Kazador, Túrion lets Mel do the explanations, then chimes in:"Aye, Elven humor is...unique. Sometimes the punchlines only comes after years."
He places a hand on the Dwarves shoulder: "Good to see you, too - I was a bit worried when I came to and didn't see you with the others."
When Kelian and Algric stay behind, Túrion shrugs apologetically: " I would tell Nelly to stay and defend you, but there's no chance she'll leave my side in the next few days..."
He takes a closer look at the lever: "Maybe we could somehow affix it in the open-position? But even so, you are right, we could get trapped inside unless there is a secondary opening mechanism inside. Something I'd expect, but we can't be certain."
Heading inside the opening, he looks around: "Well, lets go...and see what this all was about..."
"Since the elves where here looking still I'd guess either the vault keepers broke free and escaped or they left the Heart here. If the orcs had found it I'm sure the elves would have taken it from them."
"If that WAS indeed what they were after. Empowering one singular weapon is great to defend a chokepoint underground, but unless it grants godlike powers, it will hardly win a war. They may have been after something else entirely."
"The Heart of Kazad Gravr, perhaps?" Mel says. "It sounds like a power source of some kind, one that can be used to make powerful weapons. That would certainly be an asset the Concordat would like to have. And it would explain why they sent one of the Magisters of Concordat Academy to get it."
You continue walking through the tunnel and soon you enter into a perfectly circular cavern approximately 40 ft across with a 20 ft ceiling. The center of the ceiling is supported by a thick column that narrows about halfway between the ceiling and the floor to several inches in diameter. The central portion of this column is composed entirely of a shining white crystal that is emitting light in a weak, pulsating pattern.
You see several objects lying on small stone pedestals around the central column.
Mel admires the place quietly, but waits for Kazador to take the lead here.
Mel spots four items sitting on daises around the central column: A dwarven boulder helmet, a necklace of claws made from obsidian, a set of mithral finger gloves, and a set of silver anklets set with sapphires. In addition, there seem to be several crates on the far side of the chamber with parchments nailed to them.
Kazador walked in and bowed his head reverently. After a short prayer, he said ”This is it.” He walked over to the helmet and looked for an inscription that might tell more of it.
He tried to recall what he could of these items. They were the artifacts of his people. A feeling of profound sadness settled in his chest. ”These all must come with us. This place is a tomb, but it is one which will eventually be pillaged. Either by the orcs, or the elves when they send the next group. We can leave nothing of value behind.”
Fyrtor for his part looks around to see if there is anything else worth noticing. Pointing at the glowing pillar he asks, "how does it do that? Should we be careful of traps even in here?"
Mel goes over and examines the crates with parchment on them.
Fyrtor determines that, if the central column holding the crystal that is emitting light is load-bearing, then this chamber may be in danger of collapsing. But he sees no intentional traps.
Mel's vision grows blurry for a moment as she must have been crouching and stood up too quickly but she is fine and walks over to the crates. There she reads, in dwarvish, that these crated stores of weapons and armor are intended for the use of the dwarven people. Specifically, it describes that they should pass to the dwarven colony in Iustia if anything should happen to Kazad Gravr.
Kazador is able to read the dwarvish runes describing the might of each item.
The helmet is a dwarven boulder helmet of the defending warden.
The fine mithral gloves were made with all of the wisdom of the dwarves to heal woven into them.
The necklace also contains the wisdom of the dwarves, but related to the power to call forth battle magic.
The anklets, however, are very unique, attuned to communing with the ancestors, something beyond sacred among the ancient dwarven loremasters.
Kazador read the inscriptions our loud, and explained in layman’s terms what they could do. A sad smile crossed his face. ”My friends. When I came here I had planned to return everything to Dwarven hands. But looking at these treasures...it must be divine providence that brought all of us here.” One by one he removed the relics, and began to pass them out. ”These were meant to be used. That is why anything is crafted. It is ironic, is it not? That my people died due to elven greed for these.” He looked at Mel and Turion. ”And now they are given to elves out of friendship.” He looked then at Brolin and Fyrtor. ”And mankind, as well. We are taught that the entire world, and all races, originated from Torag’s anvil. It has been too long since my kind has truly acted on that. I would consider it an honor if you three would wear these with the same pride that I extend them.”
Fyrtor takes the necklace from Kazador with reverence. "this is a gift I could never repay. I will wear it always as a reminder of your friendship, and that of your kind. In the hills near my home there are dwarves that work their craft mining. If ever they need help I promise to give what aid I can so long as their cause is just."
Quietly Fyrtor waits as the others give their thanks for the great trust Kazador has shown them. Then he shares, "Kazador, I know that this place is beautiful, but you know there will be others who come looking. The central pillar, if we were to destroy it I think the whole chamber would collapse. It's terrible to ruin the work of your people's greatest stonecutters, but if this were to be a pile of rubble treasure hunters might assume that the treasure they are seeking is buried here and waste their lives digging away at it. Certainly it isn't something to do now, but before we leave perhaps?"
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It's with trepidation and shaking hands that Muse takes hold of the sapphire-inlaid silver bands. To his sight, they glow like a beacon even against the backdrop of the other dwarven artifacts. As if there were three suns in the sky, the suns with him in the room, and then also something Else that is to the sun what the sun is to the moon. But that's where the analogy breaks down. Because the suns didn't all glow with light. You can get used to light. By going blind. And once you've seen light it holds no surprises for you. It comes in different colors, but that's about it.
Sure, there was light. Centuries of it. Light from hearths and forges, snippets of lives preserved because they were significant to the person who lived them. Centuries of light compressed into a single moment as Muse's brain tried, despite itself, to wrap itself around what he was holding. And along with that light came happiness and sorrow and disappointment and wrath and relief and confusion and humor and a deep seated contentedness that that made him think of the Sonder and every other emotion known to humans or dwarves. Muse laughed and cried, holding those silver bands, and didn't have the spare presence of thought to care what anyone thought of that. It helped the Spirit Dancer not one whit that he'd carried the First King's sword until he'd grown used to it's light. You can't get used to a flood of unique memories. Muse was learning new and exciting ways to go blind.
But one thought stood out from all the others, because it was his. More an emotion than a thought, though, or two emotions - wonder for what had been, and despair at what was lost.
The dwarves had a tradition of Spirit Dancers. Psychic powers tended to run in families, but they jumped and skipped where they pleased. Dwarven lives were long enough for one generation to train the one after the one after the next. In a secluded mountain hideaway, far from the memories of civilization, children were trained by their parent's grandparents, taught techniques to manage their curse and gift. Ghosts didn't chase them out to sea, they didn't have to figure things out as they went.
Muse thinks, I wish these were my lives that I'm watching. But I'm glad I got to see it.
"Kazador," Muse manages through the onslaught of emotions and centuries of light, "Kazador. If I meet a dwarf who who sees the ghosts like I do, I'll teach them how to Dance and I'll be happy to let them have any and all ancestral doodads on my person. That . . . came out a lot more flippantly than I meant it. I'm as sincere about this as I've ever been about anything ever - a dwarf could do more with these than I ever could. And I'd hate for the world to lose something like that."
ᚨᚾᛞ᛫ᛟᚾ᛫ᚦᚨᛏ᛫ᚲᛟᚾᛞᛁᛏᛁᛟᚾ᛬ᛃᛟᚢ᛫ᚺᚨᚡᛖ᛫ᛗᛃ᛫ᚨᛁᛞ, says the new voice in his head, in a voice like mountains shifting. Living with Legacy helped with that, at least.
"Thank you for letting me borrow these," Muse subvocalizes, "until we find their rightful owner."
Mel takes the gloves reverently, admiring the play of light over them. "They're so supple!" she exclaims. "They feel like silk. Truly, this is a work of incomparable craftsmanship, Kazador. I can't even begin to imagine what it must have taken to make something like this out of mithral."
She slides them on. They fit perfectly.
"The crates over there contain weapons and armor," she says. "I don't know if it's magical or not, but there's a note saying that if Kazad Gravr has fallen, they wanted the crates to be passed on to a dwarven clan in Iustia. They didn't say the clan's name or where it's located. Kazador, perhaps you know?"
Kazador put on the helmet. It felt right, sitting atop his head. The perfect weight, the perfect fit. It was like a part of himself that he never knew was missing. He looked at his companions and their appreciation of the craft, and knew at that moment a small feeling of satisfaction. He had lost his clan, that was undeniable. But he had found something close to it.
To Fyrtor, he shook his head. ”What you day makes sense. But to do so might well crush us as well. There is no guarantee that we will outrun it. And, at the moment, this is the last piece of my home that is untainted. I would rather focus on how we will get everything out than how to bury it all.”
The crates are about 2 ft x 2 ft x 2 ft and seem to weigh about four hundred pounds.
The faintly glowing crystal in the center of the column is the heart of Kazad Gravr, deeply tied to the stony roots of the entire excavation and channeling magical resonance into one focal point. It is greatly weakened and in danger of breaking should it be disrupted physically or magically.
When Kazador lifts the helmet off its dais, an audible crack is heard in the glowing crystal in the center of this chamber.
"Easy," Mel cautions.
She points at the stone. "That's clearly the Heart of Kazad Gravr," she says. "And it's very weak. We should move cautiously. Let's get the crates out of the room first, and then -- gently, slowly -- the rest of it. Anyway we shouldn't leave Kelian and Algric holding up that lever for too long."
"I think you must be right Mel. I wonder if somehow the Heart draws power from the items around it. Either way, we should take the crates out before touching any of the other relics." With a concerned glace up at the pillage Fyrtor moves to take one of the crates and set it outside the room.
As Kazador helped carried the crate out (sans the helmet, left where it was) he said ”The note must refer to Revan. There aren’t many dwarven settlements on the continent. Kazad Gravr was the largest. Now, Revan is north of the Hammerfall Desert, and it is only about two hundred strong. No idea how we’d get this there. Also, about the heart. How do we use it? This is so far out of my area of expertise that it isn’t funny. I mean...I can use the runes on my hammer. That’s my...was...my craft. But this...”
As magic resumes working, Túrion takes a moment to cast a short spell heightening his perception.
As the group enters what appears to be the Vaults of the Dwarven City, Túrion takes a look at the artifacts in wonder. When Mel draws attention to the central pillar, Túrion averts his eyes and does a brief incantation that allows him to see Magic.
Careful not to look directly at the Heart, he keeps the glow in his peripheral vision and searches for possible connections between the artifacts and the central pillar, then turns to his Dwarven comrade:"Kazador, may I touch your Hammer?"
Moving the crates is no small task as they weigh about four hundred pounds each. You drag them across the floor, for now.
Together, Kazador and Turion are able to determine that the heart is a great source of magical power, funneling arcane energy from deep within the very stone roots of the city itself into this one focal point, so it could never be moved from this point. It has been harnessed into rune smithing to create these artifacts as well as the artifacts that came before. But the heart is growing weaker as it was over-taxed, especially to make these last four great items in the hour of greatest need. As long as they stay on their daises close to the heart, it can continue. But moving them away from the heart would likely lead to its destruction rather soon.
Together, Turion and Kazador puzzled over the Heart. For what was likely the first time in the continent’s history, elf and dwarf combined their knowledge on the arcane arts. Kazador was no mage. The theoretical concepts of magic were far beyond him. But likewise, Turion had no experience working rune craft. The issue, at the moment, was how to use the Heart to power his hammer.
Kazador knew that the runes on his hammer drew in magic and stored it, only to then be released in a controlled manner. It was a unique form of creation, allowing those without magical skill to act like mages. For a race such as his, where magical ability was rare, this was an essential equalizer. One could only imagine what the elven people could do with such knowledge.
He knew that there were great risks here. Most likely using the Heart would break it. And while it broke his heart to cause that, it was better than allowing it to fall into the hands of orcs...or elves. He also knew that working with Turion here might well be enough to have him labeled as a traitor to his people. It could make him into an outcast wherever dwarves dwell. But he was certain that Torag had brought them all there for a reason. And in the end, it was to his God that he answered.
Now it just remained to be seen on whether his knowledge of working runes would be enough to allow him to power them.
Kazador concludes that the heart is on the very precipice of breaking. Simply moving away the present four artifacts on the dais would lead to its distraction, as proved by the crack it gained when he picked up his new helm. Using it to empower another artifact is beyond both him, Turion, and the heart itself.
Mel approaches and lays a hand on Kazador's shoulder. "I don't think there's anything more to be done," she says. "If we take the treasures laid out here, then the Heart of Kazad Gravr will die, and make its own tomb."
"But if we leave them, well ... the orcs hold this place now. Sooner or later some of them will find their way in here and take them. Same result ... except that the orcs will hold the power of these artifacts."
Sorrow flits over her features. "It's a terrible thing. But not one we can avoid."
"Perhaps you are right, and it is divine providence that tools so perfectly suited to our abilities should lie waiting us here. If so, then let us give thanks, and respectfully honor Torag's intent. And then be on our way. The world outside has not stopped moving -- and though there is little yet to do here, much remains to be done out there."
"It is not what you wish to hear, but the Heart was taxed beyond its capacity to bear. The guardians must have known everything was lost. These items - I know not why they were left behind - yet have a suspicion, and chances are they were created with the last bit of power it could give, draining it to the point of collapse. Even picking them off their Dais will be enough to disrupt the flow of energy to the point it will physically collapse."
Túrion looks around the room, then walks up to the central pillar:
"It was the will of the guardians to tax it to this point. And the treasures laid out on the dais fit perfectly the lot of you. They knew you would come. Wether gods, divinations, or other magics, I dare say they had prior knowledge of these events. Some of these tools are very niche, yet perfectly suited to one of you. Nothing here for me, but something for Fyrtor. That quite limits the time of their last stand and creation - not that long ago. I may be wrong, of course, but it does seem likely."
He walks over to the crates: "Also these. Who was supposed to deliver them? The orcs? If they knew the place would fall, they would not have left them more to loot, they would have made things unusable, or hidden them away, not place them in plain sight. No, I think the guardians of this place knew who would come, and call upon us to deliver these to their rightful owners. And take the last bits of power from the heart before collapsing this place."
The elf turns to Kazador:"If I am right, they were watching you. They had no connection to any of the others. They were scrying, and you were their last and only hope. This..." he points at the helmet, "...is a vote of confidence. They believed in you, and do so, now."
Turning back to the pillow in the center, Túrion finishes his speech:"The way it works, it would empower a weapon with it's own energy. Great for defending the place, but the transferred power would diminish greatly with distance. We could only have temporarily charged your runes, while we remain here, and then the heart would have fallen to Orcs, or the Concordat. They decided this was better. They wish to keep the secrets of their craft. I am not certain how extensive the collapse caused will be, but we should move fast. That means we should inform Algric and Kelian, and get the boxes as far towards the Vault entrance as we reasonably can. Then return here and fetch these last gifts before running like the wind."
Quietly Kazador listener, with his head bowed. He didn’t say a word as the other spoke. Looking up at the Heart, he took a deep breath. He knew what he had to do. ”Aye.” was all that he could say.
Once the crates had been moved, he insisted on being the one to do it. One by one he removed the artifacts, watching as the Heart broke. The helm was the last one, and he put it on as the last spark of his home died. It was a final act of despair, for it was admitting that Kazad Gravr would never rise again. The continent, it seemed, was not meant for his people. And yet, there was also hope. Hope, in that the Gods has not abandoned them, and there was purpose yet.
Before Kazador moved to remove the artifacts Fyrtor offered, "I could sape some stone from the wall here into a prop to hold the level, then only Kazador would have to run. Mel, can you help me make sure it will work?"
Then he and Mel move to put into action what he'd proposed.
Then he asks the others to help him get the creation in place
"Sure, Fyrtor. Let me run and get some measurements." She pulls some string out of her haversack.
She goes to the lever room, where she uses string to get the measure of how high up the lever needs to be, how wide it is, and so on. She cuts off the string at each measurement, giving pieces that can be arranged on the floor as a reference.
She briefs Algric and Kelian on what's going on while she works.
On the way back she hesitates where the bodies of the two wizards lie. She lifts her hands and says a brief prayer. "Ostara, nopeuta heidän sieluaan oikeudenmukaisilla palkinnoillaan. Ja estää heitä palaamasta. Olkoon nämä ruhot rauhassa."
Túrion considers the mechanical necessities of a prop for the lever himself, deciding to think independent from Fyrtors and Mels design.
"Well actually...", he shares his insights and worries.
As they pass the bodies of the two mages, he lingers a bit, looking at the older one, then turns to Mel:"Is it petty of me that I wish I had access to magic that lets people speak with the dead? I'd like him to know that I am still here. I am not sure if that's just a general desire not to be forgotten or if I just want to rub it in. Probably the latter....but surviving past the point you are supposed to die is...not fun."
Mel considers the question and counters with one of her own. "Well," she says, "If you told him, what would you gain from it?"
Turion comes up with a good plan for Fyrtor to shape some of the rubble so that it will hold up the lever.
Túrion takes a moment to consider before answering: "Peace of mind, mostly. The triumph in his eyes as he struck me down, the smugness of his comment about my people. It nags at me, festers in the back of my mind. Turning the tables and making him see that he failed utterly would help cleanse that from my consciousness. It does not help that his headband is immensely powerful. It provides me with improved clarity of thought, a sharper intellect, and reminds me of its origin all the time - at least until it starts to feel more natural. My casting is less vulnerable to psychic disturbances than Brolin's discipline, but I like my mind free of distractions regardless - and he remains one, despite his demise."
He shrugs, turning away from the old mage:"As said, maybe I should be a grander person and not dwell on such. But the reality is that it's fresh in my mind, and hard to ignore."
Nelly, meanwhile, lacking other orders, stays close to Túrion, enjoying ear scratches and chin rubs whenever an opportunity presents itself.
She had no idea HOW he did it, being so mangled and coming back. It was only important THAT he did it. And so, Nelly was happy, and would be for the forseeable future.
"I still haven't managed to channel Gael, and I doubt we'd have any better luck with this guy. I can still give it a go sometime later, but we don't even know what his name. There's no way I can conjure such a powerful spellcaster with such a weak connection - mighty wizards don't get that way by having easy minds to crack."
Muse takes a seat on one of the crates. "Even if I could, though, what would be the point? He's dead. Memories scattered, petitioner making it's confused and terrified way to Hell. Maybe we could cause him a little more pain, pull him back together and make him understand that he killed one less person in his life then he thought he did . . . maybe it'd even be therapeutic. Probably, even, for a given value of therapeutic - Asher could tell you that it feels good to twist a knife." Brolin shrugs. "I'd worry, though, about putting too much stock in the opinion of someone who you don't like, and who can't hurt you. See, there's this saying we humans have - you can't make everyone happy, and you can't make everyone miserable, and in the end you have to decide who it is you care enough about to care about. Myself, I'm neither vindictive nor obsequious by nature, so I pretty much do whatever seems like a good idea and let other people sort out how they feel about it. That's my advice for you, too, though I make no particular claims to wisdom."
Túrion turns to Brolin: "Oh, but there is wisdom to your words. You are short-lived, so focusing your attention on those people, those things you deem really important makes sense. Holding a grudge, or attempting to make someone happy for decades would cause you to waste a large part of the time you have on something that may or may not work out. Focusing on what's important is a great strength of your kind, and that you want to see goals fulfilled in your lifetime gives you a great drive to accomplish things. But such is your nature."
He points at Kazador and Algric, then himself:"My dwarven friends are welcome to correct me, but those of us with longer lives seem to have a different approach - we sometimes care more intensely about things that may seem futile or mundane to others. When you have centuries, the priorities shift. I have no idea who he was. But I intend to learn that. A century from now, a son of his may turn up at my doorstep intending to kill me for what will undoubtedly be presented as a cold-blooded murder by the Concordat, decades after they learned of our role in this from some Orcs that gave them a description. He is not gone from my mind until I am certain there are no loose ends I have to worry about. And as such, yes, it would be therapeutic to metaphorically twist the knife and feel content about his fate. Rest assured, though, that I don't intend to dwell on it. You will manage to channel Gael, I've no doubt about it. And no urgency, seeing how we seem to travel together for a while longer."
"Rejoice that you are alive," Mel says. "And live well. That's the best revenge, they say."
"As for who he was, well, I can tell you that. Oh, not his name, I'm afraid. You've all heard of Concordat Academy, I presume? The premiere magical academy in the Concordat. It has thousands of apprentices, hundreds of mages. You have to be an accomplished wizard in your own right before you can even apply to become an apprentice there. And overseeing them all are the Magisters: eight of them. One specialist in each school of magic. They serve as magical advisors to the Council, and provide adepts to perform tasks for them."
"Our opponent had the insignia of Concordat Academy in several places on his gear. Given that, his age, and his sheer power, he was certainly one of the Magisters of Concordat Academy. Most likely the Magister of Conjuration."
"Well...one down, seven to go."
Túrion slides some hair behind his new headband, while the other hand's grip on one of the Rods gets tighter: "I'm ready when they are."
Kazador didn’t rise to the conversation. He’d never given thought to the question of grudges, and he certainly wasn’t of the mind to be philosophical. Rather, he said ”So that was probably one of the most powerful wizards on the continent. Further proof of divine providence. If it were not for the runes of the ancestors trapping him, he would have killed us all.”
"Now if we can just get out of here alive..." Turinging to address Kazador directly he goes on, "Don't waste time on your way."
You make your preparations, propping up the lever and retrieving Algric and Kelian. Then you pass through the area of the cloudkill spell! The searing vapors assault your lungs again!
Mel takes a deep breath before entering the area, and crosses through it as rapidly as possible. Still, her eyes are burning by the time she emerges on the opposite side, and she spend some time coughing anwyay.
Kelian, made slower by his heavy mail, spends longer in the miasma. Emerging on the other side he looks quite green.
"Ugh," he says.